


al rovescio

by greywash



Series: Author's Favorites [8]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (also like:), (really:), Anal Sex, Bisexuality, Bravery, Constructed truths, Episode Tag, First Time, Four hundred and forty-ninth time, Frottage, Internalized -isms, Kissing, Lies, Love Stories, M/M, Nonlinear Narrative, Or shall we say, Post-04x05, Pre-emptive fix-it, Second Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 12:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: "Charlton, meet my friends," says Eliot. "Quentin, from that time I convinced him to fight Penny—"





	al rovescio

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of can't remember if I've _ever_ posted a Magicians fic that said this, but: none of my usual warnings apply to this story. Lawks. I keep my warning policy in my [AO3 profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings) and am always willing to answer private DW messages or [emails](mailto:greywash@gmail.com) asking for elaboration or clarification on my warnings for a particular story. The dialogue you recognize is from 1x02, 3x05, and 4x05, and it should be more or less obvious which bits are from which; I'm referring to the Netflix subtitles for S1 and Amazon for S3 and S4, and only editing them in places where both I am 100% sure they're not what's actually said on screen and there's no way to play with the inconsistency in the story itself (see: that line of Quentin's in 1x02 that presumably was in the script, since it's in the subtitles, but he never actually says).
> 
> This story—which is 100% canon compliant up through 4x05—is also legitimately only the faintest of AUs for [_The Marriage Plot_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208865), but isn't that just basically the state of play, post-4x05? Suddenly all our fic is canon. I'm rolling with it. I'm rolling with it.
> 
> I managed to originally post this without saying: huge, huge thank-yous to **breathedout** , as always, whose tolerance for me shouting about these jerks continues to be way higher than I deserve. ♥

### 4.

A peach. And why _shouldn't_ it be a peach? Eliot wonders: there was that French guy who got it up for like three thousand pages over the smell of tea and a cookie, or something; and this is—summer, distilled: the wet-sweet honey-and-perfume smell of it bursting on his tongue: and _remembering_ , surging through Eliot in waves: remembering, suddenly, holding Ella on his knee to feed her little bits of peaches and apricots on a visit, while she grabbed at his glasses and his—his knobby aching hands: "I got... so _old_ ," Eliot is realizing; and—

—he sees it, doesn't he: that expression, on Quentin's face: when Quentin says, "You died."

A tug. Somewhere deep in the center of him: he touches Quentin's elbow. "I died."

He doesn't want to look at it too closely. He remembers— "You had a wife": Quentin's pretty wife, with her red hair and her sad eyes and that bedrock-deep vein of sarcasm and black humor: he'd loved her too, hadn't he? And he'd loved—Eliot feels it bubbling out of him, halfway to laughing: "And we had a family": Ari, and Teddy, and then—Ella, much later. And the boys.

"How... how... how do we remember that?" Quentin asks. He is looking at Eliot with his eyebrows doing—that thing, that thing they do, that thing they—'re always going to do, Eliot is realizing—remembering: that tremulous rising-up soap-bubble of feeling, at the way Quentin looks, when he's having a lot of feelings: Eliot laughs. He could kiss him, almost. 

"I don't know," he admits. It feels like—like a dream, a good dream: "Did it happen?" —remembering Quentin tucking his head under Eliot's chin and letting him kiss him: _Oh_ , Eliot is thinking, tremendously fond: _oh, Quentin_.

Quentin looks at him. "Fifty years."

"It happened," Eliot decides. 

"It was sort of beautiful."

"It really was," Eliot agrees, half-laughing, because it had been beautiful: Ari—Quentin—Teddy—and Ella, his lovely little Ella with Quentin's solemn eyes and stubborn chin and his name, for some reason: she'd had every boy in the neighborhood walking into walls by the time she was seventeen: _Now this_ , Eliot had told her, _is how you ensorcel the testicles of anyone who gets closer than you want them to, and—on the other hand, this is your Auntie Margo's spell, to keep everything—shall we say, string-free_. Teddy had been totally scandalized, that either of them knew a contraception spell. Eliot and Quentin had laughed for about a week. It _had_ been beautiful. It _is_ beautiful: lovely, and—wistful, and sweet: all wound up with that low warm ache of longing: God, Eliot is thinking, with the perfume-honey taste of peaches on the back of his tongue: he doesn't even care if it _is_ fake. It had made for a fucking _gorgeous_ memory.

Next to him, Quentin shifts. 

"I know this sounds dumb," Quentin says, quiet, "but—us. We—you know, think about it. Like, we—we work": and Eliot—

(—later, Eliot will beat himself up over most of this, honestly: but this, most of all, that at first he had thought—)

—half-thinks that Quentin is talking about the quest. "And we know it," Quentin is saying, looking at him, with his eyebrows doing that thing that they do: and _Yeah_ , Eliot is thinking, _we did do okay, didn't we?_ , as Quentin says, "'cause we've lived it," and Eliot is wondering what the next chapter of the story is, and whether he can finagle his way into Margo letting them do it together, just him and Quentin, tucked away on—a rock somewhere, in a tent, curled up knee to knee sharing body heat and—just watching him _looking_ at him, while he tells Eliot stories; the way that Quentin is looking at him right now, with his mouth and his eyebrows doing that thing they're always going to do when Quentin is having a feeling; so it takes Quentin actually saying, "Who gets that kind of proof of concept?" in just _that voice_ , for Eliot to actually get it.

And _—Oh_ , Eliot thinks. 

Thought. 

Is thinking: just— _Oh_ , tremendously fond; _—oh,_ Quentin.

"We were just injected with a half-century of emotion," Eliot reminds him, "so—I get that maybe you're not thinking clearly," because—God, does he not— _remember_ it? The way Quentin'd looked at—Ari, whenever she came by; at—at Cora Walker, later on—

And Quentin. "No, I'm just saying," he's saying: "What if we ... gave it a shot?" with his bright eyes his eyebrows his mouth saying—as he asks Eliot, "I mean, would that be that crazy?" As he shakes his head, looking at Eliot like that, like that, like _that_ ; as he asks: "Why the fuck not?"

And _Oh_ : Eliot shakes his head, because he's not about to— "I know you": shaking his head. "And you... aren't..."

"What's it matter?" Quentin interrupts; and "Don't be naive. It matters," Eliot tells him, looking—away, because—oh, Quentin, that face: that face that Eliot—that Eliot's never been able to bear. 

Eliot is.

Remembering. 

He can't—not, can he? He is remembering Quentin, so lovely, so— _young_ : _this_ Quentin, essentially, this _boy_ , putting his knee over Eliot's for the first time the second time, and saying, _I don't really—um_. He had been so, so pink. He had been so, so pink, and he had been so, so sweet, and he had been so, so _straight_ : that nervous, blushing, beautiful boy that had told Eliot _no_ when Eliot'd asked him, _have you..._ and had whispered _yes, please_ when Eliot had asked him, _can I?_ : a child, nearly, that Eliot had taken to bed—once. Once. _Just this once_ , he had told himself, when he was a child himself: _Why the fuck not?_ Eliot had thought, fifty years ago. _I mean, sure, he's my best friend and I'm hopelessly into him and we're trapped together for who knows how fucking long, but—he's beautiful. He's asking. Why shouldn't we? What could it hurt?_

"Q, come on." Eliot's chest aches, because it _had_ hurt. "I love you, but... you have to know that that's not me."  It had hurt—both of them, in the end: "and that's _definitely_ not you," and Eliot would've known it from that face, wouldn't he: that way that Quentin's mouth tenses up like that and his eyes go dark and—and wounded, like—like—nothing Eliot can face. "Not when," he says, looking away, "not when we have a choice."

He won't do it again. He can't. _So, you know_ , Quentin had said, and  then he'd laughed. _So during the festival, maybe we could—_ go _, we could—_ and Eliot'd pushed away from him, gotten up, and pulled his shirt on, because he couldn't stand it. And that—that had been. The worst part, hadn't it, knowing that he'd—led Quentin so far into—into a trap, into this little trap that Eliot hadn't even entirely realized he was making, to lead Quentin along far enough to think that—well. He won't do it again. It's not—

It's not as though it doesn't hurt. Of course it hurts. But—a little break, Eliot is thinking, set fast and clean: like that time he'd convinced Quentin to go after Penny, and Quentin had broken his arm, but stayed at Brakebills. That'd been the important part, hadn't it. _Hadn't_ it: so okay, fine, it hurts, it hurts both of them, right now: it'd been terrible back then, too, hadn't it? For a moment. But Quentin'd got over it. _We could be done tomorrow, for all you know_ , Eliot'd told him, with Quentin, still breathless, coming after him, retying the knot at his hip: _You want to live your life, live it here_ , Eliot had said—and Quentin had. He'd gotten his head on straight and got his act together and then there'd been—Ari. Teddy, and Ella and the boys: and that'd _mattered_ to him, hadn't it? That'd been the part that was important. Eliot doesn't regret it. It'd been the right decision. He won't regret this, either, probably.

"Okay," Quentin says, finally. "I... Okay." Eliot can feel him, ducking his head. Looking away. "Sorry." 

 

### 3.

"You know," Quentin says. Two and a half years in Fillory, lying knee to knee with Eliot while they catch their breath, lacing up their fingers together, unlacing them: over, and over, and over. "I—um." Quentin laughs, a little, feeling—a delicate, soap-bubble of happiness, swelling out through the whole of him. "Do you remember that time that—when I almost got kicked out of Brakebills, and you, uh. You said you were going to find me, and not tell me about magic, but seduce me, to lift my spirits?"

"Mm. I do remember that." Eliot ducks his head down, to nuzzle at Quentin's collarbones. "And stand by it as an idea."

"Me too." Quentin squirms, his whole body prickling up all over: he slides his hand down Eliot's arm, feeling—greedy, wanting it; and a little ashamed, because he just _got_ it, didn't he: but that's stupid, isn't it. Eliot never seems to mind. Eliot, Quentin knows, kind of thinks it's—well, cute, sort of. Quentin probably should be offended by that, but—it always seems like a lot of work, to get upset about whatever dumb little corrupting-the-straight-boy fantasy Eliot's role-playing in his brain today: whatever. It doesn't matter, so as long as Eliot just keeps—

"Can I," Quentin asks; and "Mm": Eliot agrees, and kisses him; so Quentin rolls up over on top of him so that they can fit together chesthipsmouths, opening: his cock just nestling in against Eliot's and _fuck_ that's good: like Eliot's big hands on his ass, squeezing as Quentin shivers, sliding— _against_ him—

"It _was_ a good idea," Quentin tells him, "My spirits are officially lifted. For—you'll probably have to keep after it, though, for—so it'll last for—decades": and bends down to kiss him.

Eliot hums. "For decades seems—" and then gets—distracted, licking up into Quentin's mouth. "S'a pretty big project there, Coldwater"; and "Oh, _project_ ," Quentin says, "Is that what we're calling it these days?" and then both of them start giggling, helplessly, squirming— _together_ , and—panting Quentin fits his hand down around them: _God_ , that feeling—that velvetysofthot animal feeling of Eliot sliding— _against_ him with his head thrown back and Quentin wants—he wants to—he bends down to bite at the delicious salty-stubbly skin of Eliot's throat with that—that _craving_ rising up through him like a tidal wave as Eliot jerks— " _Ungh_ — _Quentin_ —" and Quentin whispers, "Come for me, I want—I want to _feel_ it—" and Eliot moans, grabbing up for Quentin's hair; and does it. Shuddering, all over: and shivering with him and with him and _with_ him, not for the first time, Quentin thinks: _This is it, this is_ it _: this is what I want, for the rest of my life_.

"It _was_ a good idea," Quentin says, breathless.

"What," Eliot asks, "fucking?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, and ducks down. Kisses him. "You—seducing me. Or—I mean, you wouldn't've had to do that much seducing, El, I—"

(—later, Quentin will hold onto—all of it, honestly: but this, most of all, that at least he had—fucking _said_ it—)

"I wanted to stay with you," Quentin explains: a sharp, hot tug under his ribs. Feeling his face going—hot. "I—I _liked_ you, and you—it seemed like you liked me, maybe, or you—would, maybe, eventually, so I—I wanted to stay with you, at Brakebills." He just wants to. _Explain_ , he wants Eliot to— _believe_ him: "And we'd just—talked, you know, and you'd said—and I, I knew that Penny, um. He had this amulet, Emerson's Alloy, a protective amulet, and you'd just told me— _that_ , so I kind of. After you said that, that thing about seducing me, I." He takes a breath. "I sort of, um—I got into a fight with him so I could pick his pocket, I thought it'd help me with the specialist, I—I didn't—I didn't want to forget you, I didn't want to leave you, I'd just—" _Flushing_ , he can feel it: " _Found_ you, you know? And I." Back prickling. "I had a crush." 

Quentin shrugs, feeling—hot, overwhelmed, drowning with feeling, embarrassed: it's quiet, inside the cottage. It's a cool, foggy morning, outside their windows, and Eliot is underneath him, hands on Quentin's lower back, looking up at him with that—that fucking _face_ , that face that Quentin—God, fucking _worships_ , honestly: God, Quentin thinks, helpless, rubbing a thumb over Eliot's cheek, how could I ever _not_ have been in love with you?

"Quentin Coldwater, pickpocketing a traveler?" Eliot says, finally. He sounds—surprised. And—and pleased, Quentin thinks, probably: "You _are_ a dark horse."

"Yeah, well, I've got like, one skill," Quentin reminds him, and Eliot's eyes crinkle up at the corners as he says, "Honey, you've got at _least_ three"; and bubbling up all over—warm—overjoyed: Quentin bends down to kiss him, not caring that—that they're both sweaty and covered with come, not caring that—that they're going to have to get dressed after this, and go out and work on the mosaic, and if they want a bath it'll be a dunk in the river at about fourteen degrees, he doesn't care about—anything, so long as he—

"So—there's that festival," Quentin says, heart a fast butterfly flutter in his chest, and then kisses him again.

"Festival," Eliot echoes; and then licks up into Quentin's mouth: rolling them onto their sides, a little, so he can slide his knee between Quentin's: Quentin really likes that. Always: how close they can get.

"Yeah, you know." Shifting: "in—that town, down the river, where we went last year for our shoes, they've got that whole—"

"Oh, Beleaguer?" Eliot ducks down to kiss his throat. Up under his ear: "That is still the _worst_ name for a village, by the way, I'm still expecting our shoes to—"

"Yeah, so, their summer festival." Quentin winds a hand into his own hair, pulling it just aside, to give Eliot more room. "You know."

"Oh, the one with all the, um." Nuzzling: he licks at the shell of Quentin's ear, and Quentin shivers all over: his nipples getting painfully tight. "The weird—practice-handfastings and quasi-marital orgies? That Sinela keeps teasing you about?"

"Keeps teasing us about," Quentin corrects, and then takes a breath, "we could—"; and Eliot hums, distracted: and oh, fine—tomorrow, Quentin thinks, or—later, maybe; and then rolls onto his back, throwing his arms out across the bed, breathing in deep: as Eliot following him with another long sinuous press of his body, sliding down Quentin's body: "Let's," Quentin manages, somehow: spreading—spreading his thighs: "Let's just take today off, okay?"

"Mm?" Eliot lifts his head from Quentin's pecs, dark-eyed, a little glazed-looking: his cheeks are flushed.

"Let's just take today off," Quentin repeats. "No mosaic, no chores, just—just this, El, please." Sliding. His foot—self-conscious, overeager—up the back of Eliot's long thigh. "Please," Quentin whispers. "Please, just—just keep." Breathing in: "Just keep doing. Everything to me."

Eliot's mouth quirks. "Ambitious," he says, and bends his mouth back down to Quentin's sternum: and God, God, _God_ : "I believe in you," Quentin whispers, and Eliot starts laughing, and presses his whole warm body up against Quentin's, as they kiss.

 

### 2.

So.

So Quentin kisses him, and Eliot takes him to bed.

He can't—not, can he? He can't— _resist_ it, can he? Not— _Quentin_ , who is so so so so lovely and who Eliot has—and yes, he can admit it—been frankly _dying_ to screw since just about the first moment he'd seen him: and yes, okay, fine, so Eliot has a known weakness for neurotic straight boys but Quentin is— _Quentin_ , and it's not—it's not exactly like that, is it? With Quentin: who has slept next to him every night for a year and gets—a little cuddly, sometimes, in the dark, and for some reason never gets weird about it after and is now, right now, right this second pushing Eliot's waistcoat off his shoulders with pink cheeks and clumsy fingers, darting these little— _looks_ at him, that on anyone else Eliot'd call—

—desire. Desirous: and that's—Christ, that's better than any fucking drug in the _universe_ , that: Quentin looking at him like he— _wants_ him and God, okay, Eliot's only human, isn't he: can't do anything but let Quentin wrestle Eliot's dirty shirt up over his head and then pull Quentin over into his lap: and Quentin just _lets_ him, sliding his knees over Eliot's as he flushes: and _I wonder if that goes all the way down_ , Eliot had wondered, about a thousand fucking times: and it sure as hell does, doesn't it: Eliot touches Quentin's warm ribs, helpless, as Quentin is saying, "I don't really—um, I don't know what I'm doing, El"; and then ducks his head back down to kiss him again.

"You're doing fine," Eliot whispers: because Quentin keeps giving him these long sweet hungry kisses, while his hands find Eliot's face and his hair and his— _back_ , with his teeth in Eliot's lip—and God, Eliot is thinking, half-laughing, "You are—much better at that, than. Than most— _ah_ ": gasping, as Quentin slides a hand between them, to slide under the button of Eliot's trousers.

"I really want to touch you," Quentin says, very low; as his flush is deepening to a bright, painful-looking scarlet; so Eliot shifts Quentin up onto his knees so that Eliot has room to fumble his fly open under him while Quentin just keeps—fucking _petting_ him, looking down at him with his eyes dark and glittering and his mouth parted and his—fingers, tangling up in the hair on Eliot's chest and his belly as under him Eliot shoves his pants down, then reaches up for Quentin's hips again, while Quentin makes a soft caught noise low in his throat, _squirming_ : and _oh, God_ , Eliot is thinking, blood pounding up into his face, _I'm going to hell, and I'm not going to regret it at all_. 

They make out for a long, long time. They do. For—ages, really, the night warm and liquid around them, and there is this part of Eliot that wants to fucking—enter it into evidence, or something, whatever happens next: _well yes, Your Honor, I was unquestionably going to fuck him if he'd let me, but first I did kiss him until he forgot his own name_. The whole while Quentin is a hot, tense, clinging little weight in his lap, jerking, half-grinding down against him whenever Eliot touches—his throat, or a nipple, or his—mouth, which makes Quentin go big-eyed and hesitant and red, parting his lips to lick— _Christ_ —at the tip of Eliot's thumb, and Eliot's—only human, isn't he: petting into Quentin's mouth slackening around him, over Quentin's wet-velvet tongue: _well yes, Your Honor, I_ did _finger-fuck his mouth again—but have you_ seen _him?_ Because it is, Eliot is thinking, even while he is cracking down the middle, rolling Quentin over onto his back so he can get Quentin's jeans open, fucking _finally_ , while tense underneath him Quentin is pressing both his hands flat to his own burning-red face, and then saying—low, scared— "Eliot—" so Eliot slides back up to kiss him again, over and over and over and over, while Quentin—while Quentin is—

—is wrapping his arms sweat-sticky around him. Touching. The back of his ribs, his prickling lower back, and then—hesitant, _God_ , Eliot has _literally_ watched this porn: Quentin is hooking hesitant fingers under the elastic of Eliot's underwear. And Eliot—

— _I asked him, Your Honor. I did_ say—

"You don't have to," Eliot says, and then stops, with Quentin lying warm and tense underneath him, sliding his his fingers— _Christ_ —around-over Eliot's prickling-hot hip, skin to skin: "Q, we could just—"

"I want to," Quentin whispers, turning—redder, God: he looks about ready to pass out: "I've been—you said, you said you'd seduce me and I—I think about it," Quentin explains, shoulders tensing, "all the time, I think about—how it. Would—feel, how it. _Tasted_ ," _redder_ , "how it— _felt_ , I want—I want you to, I—I think about it," Quentin says, "a lot": and then finally looks up at Eliot, and meets his eyes. 

Eliot swallows. "Have you," he starts; and then stops: because he knows, of course, even before Quentin is whispering, "No, just—just with you," and then, "El, please," as he strokes his fingers— _fuck_ —over him, clumsy and light, and then pushes the elastic down Eliot's hips, as shuddering all over helpless Eliot bends down to give him a kiss, feeling—he doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't— _know_ , but it's—good, isn't it? It feels—good, and warm, and solid-hungry-right, the weight of Quentin's burning hands on his back, on his ass, when Eliot presses down bare against him: knee against knee against knee, the slick-sharp taste of Quentin's tongue in his mouth. They had—before, Quentin had— _no, just with_ —you, and Eliot is trying to remember, trying not to—he doesn't want to—to hurt him, or freak him out, and he remembers—that they'd kissed, they'd kissed a _lot_ , and Eliot—Eliot can kiss him a lot, he wants to kiss him a _lot_ , and—and he remembers that Quentin'd already come once, he thinks: Margo; but he'd still rested his head in Eliot's lap, hadn't he; and he'd put his mouth on him, Eliot remembers that: this glowing-bright hot star of a memory disconnected from—from almost everything around it: that Quentin had given him a clumsy, inexperienced third of a blowjob, while Margo had held his hair back. And that then—then they'd—

"Hey," Eliot whispers, feeling—hot all over, tender, wanting— "Can I," hooking his fingers under the waistband of Quentin's little shorts, and underneath him Quentin, trembling, whispers, "Yes, please," and then gasps, arching, when Eliot bends down to kiss his throat. Eliot wants—Eliot wants to— _You see, Your Honor_ , he half-wants to be able to say; but he doesn't know—he barely—can _think_ , he's already reaching out for the—lube, _fuck_ , the _lube_ , the jar of lube that _Quentin had asked Eliot to help him make_ , and God, was that a _pass_? Because—because all this time Eliot's been thinking that jerking it was just—something they semi-acknowledged as an awkwardness of being two men coerced into long-term platonically sharing a bed, so—so when about a half a month in they'd arranged to trade off who did the regular run into the village for food and supplies, while the other—the other—: while Eliot, at least, alone at home for one morning every week and a half did it once fast and desperate and then at least one more time slow, slow, slow: guiltily thinking how Quentin would be lying in their bed ten days later playing with his own asshole and giving his fist a solid wet-slick fuck; and not—not even able to _conceive of imagining_ that Quentin might be thinking about Eliot while he did it. 

But—

—but Quentin kisses him, then, and—

—and what if he _did_ , Eliot is thinking, helpless: his back prickling with sweat while Quentin is fumbling the jar from him, hands shaking as he pries off the lid; what if Quentin _did_ think about it: what if Quentin, the same Quentin who is spilling lube on their sheets and kissing Eliot like he's fucking _starving_ for it, leaving slickwet fingerprints on the back of Eliot's neck, at the hinge of Eliot's jaw: and Eliot—Eliot wants—the slicksoft buzzing feeling of Quentin's cock fitting into his palm, the hollow-wet space of his mouth, and—and his knee, wrapping up around Eliot's hip, rubbing his foot up the back of Eliot's thigh while Eliot is just—just barely—onlyjust rubbing against—against Quentin's fingers, pressing wet against Eliot's fingers, clumsy but certain, like his eyes: what if he _had_? What if—what if that was what he means, when he whispers, "Can you—El— _please_ ": as Eliot fits his fingers into him and Quentin shuddering all over groans; what if—what if that was what he was remembering, Eliot wants to think, while Eliot rolls up onto his side, his back, pulling Quentin over with him down against him his forehead sweaty-tight against shoulders trembling above him as gasping, grabbing at Eliot's shoulders, stunned Quentin shivering closes his eyes: what if—insidious, delirious—this was just exactly what Quentin had wanted, a year and a half ago, at Brakebills, when he'd sat up above him just as bare and pink and beautiful, in Eliot's starving arms. And then Quentin kisses him again: with that same rawhot wet noise caught low in his lovely warm throat; and oh, Eliot is thinking: oh— _Quentin_ —: dizzying, too-big, because surely no one doesn't mean it, when they kiss you like that: _You see, Your Honor_ , Eliot wants to say, hands shaking, as just—just rubbing—just fitting, just against him, Quentin is biting down on his lip, gasping, "Please, El—please, _please_ ": and _he wants me—he wanted me, for a while_ , Eliot is thinking, helpless: _I know it, I_ felt it, I knew it—he did, he did _, I_ know he did—I _know_ he did—I know it. I know it. I _know_ he did.

 

### 1.

"—to send your message, press one," says Julia's voicemail, "to erase, press two": and Quentin takes a deep slow breath and presses two: because it's over, isn't it? It's fucking—over, _over_ , _everything_ : a place where he kind of belonged, sort of; where he might've—made friends, maybe: an entire campus of people as out of step with reality as he is, nearly; and Margo is terrifying, but—seems to not totally hate him, for some reason, and Eliot's all right, and in another life he and Alice might've—been friends, sort of, or even—and then there's Penny: fucking _Penny_ , loping across the plaza in front of the student union and Quentin—

—Quentin doesn't—

—he barely even recognizes the feeling, at first: but it's _rage_ , the mud-thick sludge of his brain supplies, a half-an-instant behind: this is _rage_ , roaring up inside of him, prickling up in his back and his scalp and the metal-black taste at the back of his throat because he's fucking _furious_ : stumbling across the plaza, shouting, "Hey!"; and then— _shoving_ at him, while Penny laughs in his face and then pushes him back, and Penny is bigger than him, and stronger, and tougher, but the wave of the anger thick inside him is throwing Quentin back towards Penny without him even thinking: _why_ , gasping, _why why do you always have to_ why; and when Penny punches him, shoves him down to the ground, it doesn't even hurt; it doesn't hurt when Penny twists Quentin's arm behind his back and it doesn't hurt when he lets him up and shoves him away and it doesn't hurt when the spell is a prickling-all-over static-electric rush surging out of him until he feels it hit Penny, and then snap back: throwing Quentin across the plaza, and smashing him into the ground.

Then, it hurts. 

It hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts: a good sick hot-sharp pain, for no reason, that makes Quentin feel more focused than he's ever been before in his life.

"Might burn a little," Healer Faye tells him: she doesn't sound worried though, does she. "This is why you're not supposed to throw this kind of magic around. You're lucky I can fix this": while Penny's still just fucking _smirking_ at him, from where he's lounging on the bed across from him, that fucking dick: "You're lucky you're not expelled," Faye adds; and yeah, Quentin is thinking, _so_ lucky; while Faye comes over to set cool powdered hands around the bright hot red ache of his arm: "Oh," Quentin says, as the cold sinks into him, "that's actually—" and then he _feels_ it: the sudden sharp snarl of his—his fucking bones—fucking—

—fucking _moving around_ —

"Hold still, please," Faye is saying, impatient; but Quen—

—tin _can't_ —

—can't stop screaming shuddering screaming no matter how hard he's trying barely able to, to _think_ while his entire body distilled down to the arctic-sharp edge of razor blades cutting _out_ of him while in the other bed, Penny yuks it up, _that fucking_ cock—

" _Pussy_ ," Penny says, still halfway laughing; "N-nobody asked you," Quentin manages, around the sharp nauseating roil of agony still stretched out everywhere inside of him, barely—barely catching his breath—

"Me," Penny says, flat, "the guy you threw battle magic at? Hey, have you heard of karma?" and then lifts some fucking—crystal aura focuser, or whatever, out of his pocket: "Well sometimes," Penny drawls, "it's instant," dangling his stupid necklace down between them, like Quentin's supposed to know what it is. "You're welcome," Penny says, with his 'insufferable prick' setting turned all the way up to eleven.

But—wait, Quentin thinks, because—

"What is that," he asks, because it had— "how—how did you—"

—because it had _protected Penny_ and oh, fuck, Penny's mouth— _curling_ and Christ, Quentin hates himself.

"Real magicians protect themselves," Penny tells him: giving him yet another long, slow scornful look: and _God_ , what a fucking _bastard_ , Quentin can't believe he ever—even for a minute'd thought— "Would someone please sign him out of here?" Quentin asks, loudly, the room at large; because—anything, anything to keep his brain off—off the inconveniently erotic memory of stopstop Penny fucking—shoving him stop, _stop_ to the _STOP_ ground and—

—and Penny, _fuck_ him, drops his head back against the head of his stupid hospital bed, and starts to laugh.

 

### 5.

"Hey." Eliot sets down the Saint-Émilion, perching next to Quentin on the wall. "There you are."

Inside, the party's going, full swing: the Cottage much as it was of old, in a lot of ways, except for—well, the south wall; and how the last time he saw Fen she was in the kitchen wearing one of Margo's business-fabulous dresses— _much_ tartier, on Fen—and getting a lesson from Hoberman on how to properly pack a bong. Quentin's outside, perched on the brickwork by the grill: it's cold out, though, Quentin's shoulders hunched, hands tucked between his knees. Eliot—isn't sure he knows how to read Quentin's face anymore: it hurts, which is—good, he thinks.

Quentin takes a breath, slow. "Yeah, I—yeah, sorry." He scrubs at his face. "Yeah, I'm just—." He waves a hand.

"Tired?" Eliot asks. "It's been a hell of a few months": and then—licks over his bottom lip, reaching out to touch Quentin's cheek: and "Oh," Quentin breathes, his eyes fluttering shut, "God. Okay. I didn't imagine it?"

"Are you going to ruin my big declaration?" Eliot murmurs, but Quentin is already tipping his chin up, so Eliot kisses him instead, Quentin's arm sliding around his waist: they've waited long enough, haven't they?

"No," Quentin says, when Eliot pulls back; and Eliot blinks. 

"What?" he asks, sliding his—arm, but Quentin grabs at him: "No," Quentin repeats, "I'm not going to ruin your big declaration," and Eliot leans back in, half-laughing, and kisses him again. 

"What," Eliot says, "you don't think we can fix it all with our cocks, or—oh, fuck it, Quentin, I love you, be with me, baby—telling you no was the worst mistake of my life every time I did it": and Quentin shivers, and crawls over into Eliot's lap.

"Careful," Eliot warns, steadying the wine.

"I don't fucking care," Quentin mumbles, " _kiss_ m—"

They do knock over the wine. Unfortunately.

"There you are," Margo says. When she finds them. Later: Eliot reaches up and pulls her down onto the lounger next to them. "Ah—do I want to touch this blanket?" she asks. "How naked are you, under there?"

"Naked enough," Quentin tells her, dimpling spectacularly; and she rolls her eyes but lies down with them anyway.

"You," Margo says to Eliot, "are supposed to be inside," then reaches over to tuck Quentin's hair back: the new-painful white streak that keeps falling down into his face. "Everyone keeps trying to toast him and then he's not there so they just keep getting more wasted—you're a terrible influence, Quentin."

"I am," he agrees.

"We had some stuff to work out," Eliot explains; "No shit," says Margo; and Quentin buries his face in the top of the blanket, pulled up to Eliot's shoulders, laughing. 

"I mean it," Margo says. "You've had shit to work out for like—what was it, Q? Fifty years?"

"Mm. Fifty-four, technically, I think," Quentin says, smiling at her; and Eliot takes a slow, deep breath around—around the weird, slippery churn of that sinking into him: that Quentin— _told_ her: but of _course_ he told her, Eliot is realizing, because he left them both alone, and he only got to talk to Quentin, didn't he: and Margo's face is warm and complicated and lovely, as she's rolling her eyes at Quentin. 

"So, _yeah_ ," she says. "Fifty-four years, and you had to fix it in the middle of my party?"

"Yeah," Eliot says, at that: he touches her cheek. "We did"; and Margo sighs, and kisses the corner of his mouth, then sits back up.

"Okay, well, whenever you feel able to put your pants back on and come in for a toast," she says, "your adoring public awaits—and also, Penny's antsy to get back, in the morning, so—Fillory Express, nine AM sharp—and don't even start complaining, Coldwater, I _know_ you were running on about three hours of sleep, there, at the end, so—"

"Thanks, Margo," Quentin says, quiet; and she stops, mouth curling. 

"Yeah," she says; and then tucks his hair back again, and then bends back down to give Eliot another kiss.

Eliot watches her pick her way across the damp grass. Quentin's back, warm under his hand.

"Half of me thought it was just the Monster fucking with me," Quentin says, very low. "I thought—he's _got_ him, he's— _tricked_ him: got Eliot to _show_ him—" breathing in, deep; as Eliot presses a kiss to Quentin's forehead. "But I couldn't—risk it, could I? He probably could've—killed half the planet and I still don't think I would've." Quentin swallows. "Been able, would I, to let you go."

"Well, it worked out pretty great for me," Eliot says, quiet; petting a hand over Quentin's hair. "It was—the worst thing inside me," Eliot says. "Knowing I'd—" Chest tight. "I—God, Q. I didn't—I hated myself for what I said to you, right away, but—I still didn't take it back. Did I. Not until—"

His throat feels—painful. Tight, closing up.

"I kept thinking about—about you fighting Penny," Eliot whispers, and presses his mouth to Quentin's hair. "I mean—you were in there with me. A—a memory. And you were so—" He takes a breath. "Brave, and—warm, and— _smart_ , and God, even the memory of you I keep in most secret parts of my head loved me, _so fucking obviously_ , all the way back— _all the way back then_ , Quentin, your _first fucking year_ , and I knew it, I _knew_ it, and—what'd it fucking— _say_ about me, if that was—how I fucking _remembered_ you, and I still kept pretending I didn't believe you?"

Quentin doesn't say anything, for a minute. Just lying there, breathing; and then—

His arm, tightening, warm around Eliot's waist, under the blanket.

"I'd've done anything," Quentin says, finally, "I'd _do_ anything, to stay with you"; and staggered with gratitude, Eliot kisses his forehead.

It's getting late, he's realizing. Cold, lying down, despite the blanket: Quentin squirms a little against him, his shirt riding up a little, where Eliot's hand is resting on the warm little strip of skin between its hem and his jeans. Buttoned, even: thank you very much, Margo. "You know she's gonna tell everyone we're out here fucking," Eliot says, just as a giant cheer goes up inside, leaking out like the heat and light through the windows, around the edges of the door.

"Yep," Quentin says, and Eliot turns down to look at him.

"That's okay?" Eliot asks, confirming; and Quentin smiles.

"Yeah," he says. "That's okay."

 

### 6.

So.

So Quentin, at least, is sitting on the kitchen counter in the Cottage, Sunday morning, at nine AM: when Penny blips in, carrying a still-steaming lightly-toasted bagel, and raids their fruit basket for an avocado.

"Coffee?" Quentin asks, reaching up for the cupboard door.

"Sure," Penny says, accepting a mug. "Where's—"

"Um—Margo was drying her hair, when I ducked in," Quentin says. "Fen said she was basically ready but she was making sure she'd packed everything. I'm not sure Josh is coming, this trip. Eliot overslept, _despite_ me poking him like nine times, but he'll be down in a sec—sorry."

"Right," Penny says, and then sighs, and fills up his mug, eyeing Quentin, and Quentin looks down at his knees. 

"So," Penny says, after a minute, "you and—"

Quentin tenses. "Are you seriously about to be a homophobic asshole, right now?" he asks, looking up; and Penny pauses, and then says, "No," very slowly, and then, "—wait, was other-me straight?"; and Quentin.

Blinks.

"Uh—I have no idea," Quentin says, "he was sort of a dick about—"

—and then stops.

Flushing.

"Oh," Penny says. "No, I mean—my Quentin, too, whatever, but that wasn't—why I wanted to end him, or whatever, that was just because of his personality."

"Oh, thanks," Quentin says, flat; and then manages to meet Penny's eyes, and they both—start laughing. 

For. 

No reason, really.

"Quentin!" Eliot's voice floats down into the kitchen. "Q, are you—oh, hey, Penny. You're ready?"

" _Yeah_ , I'm ready," Quentin says, "because Margo said nine AM. So I was _here_ , at nine AM": and Eliot rolls his eyes and turns around to open up the snack cupboard.

"It's nine-ten," Penny supplies, "and Julia and I are going to the zoo, so—"

"The _zoo_?" Eliot says, flabbergasted, looking back over his shoulder; "What's wrong with the zoo, asshole?" Penny asks, glaring at him; and Eliot bristles comprehensively, so Quentin leans forward, and takes Eliot's hand.

"He's our ride," Quentin reminds him, "and you don't have a supernatural free pass on being a raging dick anymore," and then passes Eliot his coffee.

"Hm." Eliot takes a sip, eyeing Penny. "You know," he says, after a minute. "I know you think you're an epic badass or whatever, but— _Quentin_ fought you, this timeline."

Quentin kicks at his knee, muttering, "Thanks for the emphasis, there, El"; and Eliot slides a hand around his shoulder.

"You what?" Penny's eyebrows jump up. "Did you _win_?"; and Eliot—

—straightens.

"No," Quentin says. 

"Well, no," Eliot agrees, "but—"

"You punched me," Quentin says, "and I broke my arm. So. It went pretty much exactly how you're thinking, yeah."

"But he _did_ pick your pocket," Eliot says, squeezing the back of Quentin's neck, "and you didn't even notice, so you can just—get over yourself, basically": and Penny's face does something—weird, and complicated, as he looks back at at Quentin.

"What'd you steal?" he asks; and Quentin shrugs.

"Emerson's Alloy," he explains. "It was the Physical Kids', anyway. You stole it first."

"I _wondered_ where that went," Penny mutters, and then gives Quentin a sharp up-down: "I'm pretty sure my Quentin lifted it while I was asleep, you know, so. Nice to know I kicked the shit out of you for that in one reality."

"Yeah, whatever," Quentin says, and shrugs, looking over at Eliot. "Worth it, anyway," Quentin says, and Eliot's mouth quirks, as he hands Quentin back the coffee.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Al rovescio_ is a musical term for [a specific kind of canon construction](http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100430905) (uh—that's "canon" as in "[Pachelbel's Canon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JvNQLJ1_HQ0)"—the polyphonic musical form which is a parent-type of a [round](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iiRJ20LPTv0), not as in..... aaaaany of the other kinds of canons). The details of what makes a canon al rovescio sort of don't need exploring in-depth at this juncture, but it essentially means that the movement in the two voices duplicates/imitates each other in reverse. [You can listen to one here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXFUfBDnu94).
> 
> This fic's announcement posts on: [Dreamwidth](https://greywash.dreamwidth.org/68919.html) | [Tumblr](https://greywash.tumblr.com/post/183048997377/fic-al-rovescio-the-magicians-quentineliot)


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